


Whumptober 2020 - Evanstan Edition

by luninosity



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, BDSM, Begging, Blood Magic, Buried Alive, Consensual Kink, Director!Chris, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake Character Death, Fire, Happy Ending, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Imminent Watersports, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love Confessions, M/M, Magician!Seb, Recovery, Rescue, Serious Injuries, Sounding, Subspace, Undercover Missions, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, collapsed building, discussion of previous non-con, in the sense of knowingly accepting the mission, previous tags all chapter 1, previous tags all chapter 2, previous tags all chapter 3, previous tags all chapter 4, previous tags all chapter 5, previous tags all chapter 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27248695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: All the Evanstan ficlets from the Whumptober 2020 challenge!1- 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME - Buried Alive | Collapsed Building(Chris and Seb in, yes, a collapsed building...and Sebastian's badly hurt...also, terrified love confessions)2 - 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY - Collars; 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? - Rescue(Sebastian's been undercover, infiltrating a sex trafficking ring...it's time for Chris to get him out)3 - 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED - Blood Loss | Trail of Blood; 15. INTO THE UNKNOWN - Magical Healing(magician!Seb is hurt - but Chris is here to help him heal)4 - 6. PLEASE… -  “Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please”(Chris and Seb play with sounding. Seb begs for mercy.)5- 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO - Panic Attacks; 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU? - Drugged | Withdrawal; 23. WHAT’S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE? - Exhaustion; 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE - Forced Mutism; 31. TODAY’S SPECIAL: TORTURE - Whipped(sequel/aftermath of chapter 2 - comfort and recovery)6 -13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT - Oxygen Mask; 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? - Fire(a fire on set, no actual character death, emotions!)
Relationships: Chris Evans/Sebastian Stan
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986763
Comments: 41
Kudos: 123
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. buried alive/collapsed building

“Seb?” Chris hears his own voice crack. Shatter. Break right down the middle. “Sebastian?”

Sebastian doesn’t answer. No sound at all.

No. That’s not true. Groans and creaks of metal and wood. Beams and bars. The broken building’s twisted and dying all around them.

“Sebastian!” Louder this time. Hiding fear with volume. Sebastian had been beside him, a step above him, both of them on the old building’s staircase. They’d been meant to run down the steps, to be caught on camera, to escape the explosion. The special effects team had rigged it all up.

He can’t think. His ears’re ringing. If Sebastian’s answered—

“Seb? Say something!”

Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing.

Chris coughs. Tries to inhale, breathes dust, coughs again. Dry as bone.

He himself has landed in an oddly empty space, under a couple of beams that’ve landed at just the right angles for shelter. He’s hurting everywhere because he’d hit the ground hard, but he’s pretty sure nothing’s even broken, though his left hip’s screaming at him about landing on it and he’ll be limping for a while.

On his knees, he shouts Sebastian’s name again, or tries to. Coughs some more.

They’d had everything set up, he recalls—they’d been ready to run out of the building, himself and Seb being Steve and Bucky—

The earth had jumped. Shuddered. Shaken angrily.

A short quake. Barely anything. Laughable, really.

Except it hadn’t been, except the explosives had gone off early and the whole fucking building had—

And Sebastian’s not answering—

“Seb,” Chris begs. “Say something, talk to me—answer me, if you can, something, anything, fuck—come on, Seb—”

The not-quite silence swings back in and dooms the world. Chris shoves himself to his knees.

Some other noises happen, distant. On the other side of the collapse. Outside this agonizing bubble of himself and a cave of rubble and a missing Sebastian Stan, which means the missing other half of Chris’s heart, because—

Because Sebastian’s always been the other half of his heart. Hell, he’s known that for years. Sebastian Stan, sweet and mischievous and shy on first meeting but wickedly playful and adorably weird once comfortable around people, and oh Chris has thrilled to the idea of being one of those people Seb’s comfortable with over the years, knowing Seb’s grown to trust him, knowing how Sebastian loves coffee and Scottish Fold kittens and astronomy and pizza—

He’d let it become routine. Himself, wanting Seb. Seb smiling and hardworking and gulping down caffeine and diving into a character and lighting up a room. Seb maybe laughing at Chris’s jokes, sometimes; Seb maybe responding with a soft surprised smile, sometimes, when Chris touches him or says his name or hugs him at an opening night afterparty.

He’d thought they’d have time. He’d thought they’d have more years. Slow and easy, gentle and unhurried, no rush. They’d get there together, he’d hoped, and it’d been simpler just to let it all be what it was, going along.

They’re together now. Under a collapsed building and anguished metal. And Sebastian’s silent. Sebastian’s not answering. Sebastian might be—

No. Chris says it aloud, shaking, in pain. “No.”

On his knees, he fights to see through haze. More muffled noises happen; rescue efforts, probably. He tries shouting back but he’s pretty sure they can’t hear.

He crawls closer to the nearest heap of rubble. Nothing recognizable. Only broken bits of building.

He whispers, “Sebastian…”

Nothing moves or stirs, but a shape resolves itself: not Seb, but the edge of the staircase, a fractured bottom step, a shard of banister. Chris throws himself that way. Seb had been above him on the steps—

Closer, he can see a shred of black. Bucky’s wardrobe? A boot? An ankle? A shadow? He flings himself down beside wood and marble and debris. He can’t see.

He pleads with the universe, “Sebastian—!”

Something does move, then. Fingertips. And Sebastian’s voice, weak, too weak: “…Chris?”

“I’m here! I’m here, I’m here—oh thank god, Seb, fuck, thank _god_ , thank you—talk to me, keep talking—” A slab of building’s blocking his view of Sebastian. No, two slabs: one leaning perilously over Seb’s body, one lying on his shoulder and not letting Chris see his face.

Chris gets a hand into Sebastian’s fingers. They’re cold. This isn’t the arm with Bucky’s metal sleeve. “Seb? Talk to me, come on, you said my name, what’s up, what else, ask me anything.”

“Chris,” Sebastian says again, vaguely. “You feel warm.”

You don’t, Chris thinks. “Yeah, it’s just ’cause your hand’s kinda cold, but hey, you get cold a lot, right? You told me that once. Why you like jackets and hoodies and scarves and stuff. Um, I think I can move this one, there’s not a lot in the way, I’m gonna try, okay?”

“Okay.” Sebastian still doesn’t sound very coherent. Chris’s chest tightens.

He sizes up the chunk of apocalypse on Seb’s shoulder. Nothing’s leaning on it, so if he can shove it over that way and off the edge of the step right there—

He can. He has to take his hand out of Seb’s to use both arms, but he can.

He spins back to Sebastian, panting and triumphant. All the words in the universe die away. He can feel the impact, the numbness, the draining of blood from his face.

And _blood_ is too appropriate, too horrible, because there’s red, there’s too much red, it’s under the back of Sebastian’s head and trickling across the sharp edge of a step, and Sebastian’s eyes’re open but his face is white, white against scarlet…

“Chris?” Sebastian coughs. Breathes, shallow and shaky. His other arm seems to be okay, oddly: lying across his stomach. The rest of the rubble blocks his hips, his legs, with voiceless compassion. Chris doesn’t know what’s hiding under there.

He whispers around clogging chunks of icy grief, “I’m here.” He puts his hand back in Sebastian’s. Kneeling beside the stairs.

“Are you…” Sebastian stops to breathe. “Okay?”

“Me? Fine. I’m fine. Not hurt. You—you don’t have to worry about me, okay? Don’t worry about anything.” He puts his other hand atop Seb’s, in his. “Just stay with me.”

“I’m here,” Sebastian murmurs. His eyes aren’t quite focused, though they try: finding Chris. “Nothing even hurts much…just sort of strange…tired…and cold…”

“Oh god,” Chris says, and has to lift a hand, to press it over his mouth. “Seb, I—I…”

“I can’t move much,” Sebastian says. “I think my leg’s stuck. My toes move, though…so that’s good.”

“Yeah…yeah, that’s…good…”

“Did everyone…” Seb’s eyebrows tug together. “The effects people…setting up…did they get out?”

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t. He can’t think. “But we’re all gonna get out, okay? They’re coming for us, they’ll find us, you can hear them, right? Those sounds? That’s people coming to rescue us, okay?”

“I can hear it…I think.” Sebastian shuts his eyes, or lets them shut. “Maybe.”

“Seb. Please. Please stay awake. Please talk to me.” He squeezes Sebastian’s limp fingers. Sebastian doesn’t react at first, but then squeezes back a fraction.

That’s a good sign. Has to be. Maybe it’s not as bad as Chris thinks. Head wounds bleed a lot, don’t they? Even minor ones? And Seb’s awake, talking, moving toes…

 _Is_ Seb awake?

“Sebastian?”

No.

“Seb!”

Sebastian’s eyes don’t open. Long eyelashes still over pale skin. More red spills vicious over cracked stair-marble.

“Seb. Sebastian. Stay with me. Stay with me, stay here—please don’t, please don’t go, please—”

The world’s a blur. Rock-dust and tears.

Chris cradles that lax hand in his. Lifts it. Kisses Seb’s fingers, frantic, tasting smudges and salt. That’s his own: water over Seb’s skin. “Please,” he says. “Please, Seb, I love you—please don’t leave me, I love you, I should’ve said—I should’ve told you—every time I thought it I should’ve told you, a fucking million times, over and over—so fucking stupid, I should’ve just tried, should’ve said—please let me say it. Please wake up and let me say it.”

He says, “Please let me try again. Please. Seb, come on, please, I’m a fucking mess here, you know you want to wake up and laugh at me for getting all fucking melodramatic here, and I totally am, you’re right, I know, so come on, just say so, just wake up and say so.”

He says, “Please, Seb, please, god, someone, please, I love you, Sebastian, I love you.”

He says, “Please just—just know I love you, I always have, I love you and I’m here, Seb, I’m right here.”

An incongruous streak of sunlight turns dust-motes to gilt, painfully gold and hovering through cracks. It brushes Sebastian’s hand on its way to the side of the room.

More sounds, more shouting, happen outside. Excited. A breakthrough.

Chris gazes at Sebastian’s face. At Sebastian’s lips, parted.

Sebastian’s lips are still a little pink, not colorless. Sebastian’s head’s turned slightly his way, beautiful even now. Sebastian’s…

…breathing.

Sebastian’s breathing. Chris can see it. Faint, not deep, but there: chest moving, up and down.

Chris’s own chest lurches. Heaves with relief. Tries to throw its own heart in there and beat alongside Seb’s, shoring up weak thumps, offering support.

He whispers, “Sebastian…”

He’s still holding Seb’s hand against his mouth. Seb’s eyelashes flutter. Then lift.

“Seb,” Chris says, mind and thoughts empty of everything but that. White and blank and overwhelmed.

“Chris?” Sebastian sounds even weaker, and confused, but alive. “I thought…you were talking…I’m sorry, I couldn’t…I can’t think…did you say…something…”

“Said a lot of things,” Chris says, lightheaded with reprieve. “It’s okay, you’re kinda tired, I’ll forgive you for not, y’know, listening…”

“But I want to.” Seb blinks at him. “Always liked that…listening to you…’m yours, you know. Anything…if you ever want me…’s always been you. For me. Just…right…sorry, I know ’m not making sense…”

“You,” Chris manages. “You are—you said—you want me, you said—it’s right—”

“Yeah.” Seb closes his eyes, making Chris’s heart teeter on a cliff’s-edge, but then opens them again. “You don’t have to…”

“I fucking love you!”

“You—” Sebastian’s eyes actually open more. “You…wait…”

“I’m fucking in love with you,” Chris announces, Chris tells him, Chris proclaims to the world and the dust motes and the slabs of debris. “I love you, Seb. And you’re not gonna fucking die, and we’re gonna—figure this out, we’ll talk about this, we’ll—I don’t know—but you’re _not_ fucking dying and I love you and neither of us is going _anywhere_ , got it?”

Sebastian blinks again. “…I’ll…try? Chris?”

“Yeah?” Holding on, holding Seb’s hand, hoping hard. “Yeah, go on, anything, ask me.”

“I’m scared,” Seb whispers, “it doesn’t hurt…I think maybe it should…the way you look…but I’ll try. I feel…it’s so…but I want…I want to stay.”

“Good.” Chris kisses his hand one more time, a desperate magic spell. “Then that’s that, okay? You’re here and I’m here and you’re gonna be _fine_.”

“Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“You said it…I didn’t…I meant to…”

“What?” Someone’s shouting. Calling his name. More light streams in. Space opening up. Rescue arriving. People with medical training, equipment, ways to fight back against wounds and crimson streaks over stone. “Seb? Come on, Seb, what?”

Sebastian whispers, “I love you,” and keeps holding his hand, and maybe, maybe, Chris thinks. Maybe today they get a miracle. A second chance. A last-minute million-to-one save. Maybe someone somewhere believes in love.

It’s not a certainty, not yet. Sebastian’s badly hurt. Chris knows he is.

But Seb’s alive and breathing and holding onto him. That’s also true: the truest piece of the world, right now.

So Chris is breathing too. Chris is alive too. And they’re together. That’s enough for the next few seconds, and the next, and the next after that, and maybe a future.

He holds onto Sebastian as help floods in. Seb loves him, and he loves Seb. And he has hope.


	2. collars/rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian's been an undercover agent, infiltrating a sex trafficking ring that trades in submissives. It's time for Chris, his partner, to get him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for:** non-con, sex trafficking, discussion of "training" of submissives. Sebastian did say yes to the mission and going undercover, so he went in knowingly, but it got...much worse than he expected, especially mentally and emotionally.

The collar’s rigid around Sebastian’s throat, tall and unyielding. He doesn’t look up, because he’s been well trained over the last weeks. He simply stands naked—except for the decorations, the gold at his cock, the plug inside him—and with his head bowed, with the rest of the docile submissives in line for sale.

He does peek up through eyelashes, though. Sneaky. Watching as best he can.

He can’t see much, but he can feel the presence as Chris Evans enters the room. Chris is flanked by bodyguards, and they’re powerful too but no match for that lazily assured crime-lord confidence. Sebastian doesn’t glance up but knows what Chris looks like: broad shoulders, strong thighs, rippling tattoos under expensive double-breasted suits. Beard and hair kept short and neat. Eyes like thoughtful oceans: taking everything in, weighing it, deciding.

Sebastian’s feet, bare, are cold against the flat hard floor. The air’s icy; his collar’s not gentle. One of his fellow submissives begins to cry, softly; he wishes he could offer comfort.

He does not move. Not allowed.

And the confusion of it throbs and splinters in his head for a moment: anger and obedience and grief and an awful sweet pulse deep inside at the knowledge of his own capitulation, his being well behaved.

Anger at the kidnapping and underground trafficking ring, where submissives like himself are bought and sold and traded and sometimes _made_ to give in, through relentless pain and pleasure and overwhelming brilliant anguish that turns the world upside down and makes him want to be good and to please and to beg for a hand or a cock or an orgasm or a reprieve. Obedience to orders, on more than one level. Grief and sadness, bone-deep and silently raging, that they are here and he can’t even reach out to hold someone’s hand. Sweetness—

He can’t think about how right it feels to simply do as he’s told, how his body and mind react to that now, how dizzying erotic heat threatens to empty out his head. His cock hangs collared too, in a way, between his legs: caged and bound, though he’s mostly been trained to pay it no mind in any case, as he’s here to be fucked and used. His buyer might choose to play with it on occasion, to indulge him, but it’s simply there, now: Sebastian can come readily, and does, from his hole being used.

He’s been here longer than he’d thought. He’d known Chris Evans wanted him. Would be coming for him. He hadn’t thought it’d be—how long _has_ it been? Three weeks? Four? _Months_? He’d thought—he’d had those messages, those exchanges, through third-party go-betweens—

But Chris hadn’t come for him—but Chris has, now—

Chris’s legs, Chris’s shining shoes, stroll into view. They stop in front of the young man just before Sebastian in line, also dark-haired and pretty and younger than Sebastian himself; Chris pauses as if inspecting or considering options, then moves on. To Sebastian.

Who can’t breathe. No air at all. Lightheaded.

Chris puts out a hand. Lifts his chin. Grip assertive.

Sebastian flinches. Looks down. He’s not allowed—eye contact—

Chris’s voice holds a frown. “Shy, is he?”

“This one?” The dealer laughs. “Not when he’s on the machine, or getting filled up by a train of guards. He’ll make noises if you want him to.”

Chris’s fingers tighten, pressing into Sebastian’s skin. “He’s not too well used, is he?”

“No, no. Just enough to break him in. Get him used to his place. You can have a lot more fun with him.”

Chris touches the collar. His hand adds implacable weight, pressure, dominance. Sebastian shivers. “I see.”

“He’s always very sweet,” the dealer offers helpfully, “with a leash on. He likes that, the leash and collar. Like he feels good with it on. Soothing.”

He does. It’s wrong and right and bewildering. Somewhere around the second week he’d stopped being able to think about it clearly. The collar means he knows his place and his role, and if it comes off—as it sometimes does, for bathing and check-ups—he feels adrift. Lonely. Left without an anchor, bare skin unfamiliar and uncanny and not what his fingers should find, touching his throat.

“He looks pretty responsive,” Chris muses. His thumb brushes Sebastian’s jawline; the touch is tender, surprisingly so.

Something in Sebastian’s head sparks and tingles and wakes up. He looks up before he’s thought about it.

Chris’s eyes catch his.

Chris says, “All right. This one. How much?”

The man names a price. Chris nods. Gestures to one of his bodyguards, who steps forward. A briefcase is offered. “Count it,” Chris says, waving a hand: a man supremely unconcerned, certain that no one will question him.

The dealer nods, and one of his men takes the briefcase, so he’s _taken_ it, and he says to Sebastian, “Be good, now, I hear you’re in for a rough time, he likes to use up his prettiest boys—” and he drops the key to Sebastian’s collar into Chris’s hand, just like that, and Sebastian’s Chris’s now—but Chris’s bodyguards are moving too—

And the world spins, guns clatter, shouting happens, and the raid explodes into success: the whole team descending, deal caught and evidence secured, underworld traffickers rounded up and grabbed and held and taken in—

And undercover agent Sebastian Stan takes a step forward and lets himself collapse for the first time in weeks, into Chris’s arms.

Into his partner’s arms. His lover’s arms, and his dominant’s, because Chris is all of that: the other half of him, on a mission or in their bedroom, anywhere.

Chris catches him, arms frightened and strong. Other people’re giving and receiving orders, handling clean-up. Chris is only holding him, searching his face and body, saying his name over and over.

Sebastian can’t talk. Can’t even remember how to start. He clings to Chris. Lets Chris ease him to the hard expanse of the floor, sitting with him.

Chris’s voice is scared. Getting more so by the second. “Seb? Sebastian? Come on, look at me, I’m here, you’re here—I’m sorry, Seb, I’m so sorry—fuck, come on, Seb, please—I’m so sorry, we should’ve pulled you out three days ago—fucking rescheduled time and place—Sebastian, look at me, say something, god, anything—”

Chris, Sebastian’s mouth shapes. No sound. He’s shaking.

“Please—” Chris touches the collar, moves to tug at it, to use the key he’s still clutching. “Seb—”

“No!” Sebastian almost doesn’t recognize his own voice. Or his hand, flying up to stop Chris’s. To keep the weight, the feeling, the anchor, not letting Chris take it away. It’s been his constant for so long now, and he can’t, not so soon, not now; he can’t. “No, no, sir, _please_ —”

Chris freezes. Horrified. Color vanishes from his face.

“No,” Sebastian breathes, thought slowly seeping back in, catching up to what he’s just done; but he doesn’t know how to think about it yet, and he can’t do that either, can’t give it a form and existence. His eyes feel hot. Burning. He’s crying.

“Oh god…” Chris’s voice sounds hollow. “Oh god, Seb—I’m so sorry, Jesus, what’ve we done…I’m here, I’m here now, you’re safe, I won’t—I won’t hurt you—I swear I won’t hurt you…”

The girl who’d been sobbing is now wrapped in a blanket, Sebastian sees over Chris’s shoulder. Medical personnel arriving. Taking charge of the other submissives. Taking care of them.

He’s crying more. He can’t seem to stop. He reaches for Chris because Chris is large and warm and powerful and safe, and Chris bought him and will take him home, because Chris takes care of him…that’s right, isn’t it? Memories blur and hesitate, uncertain.

Chris loves him. He and Chris live together. He and Chris have been partners for over a year now, and Sebastian loves Chris cooking dinner for them and loves bookshop and stargazing dates and himself getting on his knees for Chris. Which was why he’d been perfect for this assignment, why he and Chris had been exactly right for this assignment, Sebastian already naturally easily submissive and also sure of the love and commitment that binds him to Chris, that’ll bring him back to Chris, no matter what.

He’d thought so, anyway. They both had. They’d said yes, and he’d gone in.

“Sebastian,” Chris whispers. His voice cracks. “You—you know who I am, right? I’m Chris. I’m your Chris. I’m Chris Evans and you’re Sebastian Stan and I love you.”

The words make sense but they don’t feel real. Sebastian hides his face in Chris’s shirt. Breathes. Nothing’s the way it should be, the way he’s used to.

“We got your messages.” Chris rubs his back. Chris’s hands are trembling, terrified, too gentle. Not harsh enough. Sebastian doesn’t understand why; he’s crying messily all over Chris’s suit, and not doing what Chris requested, which is that he look up and talk and be okay.

Chris tells him, “We got everything you sent out. All the names, everyone they ever dealt with, everyone you met, all the other—” He stops himself before saying _victims_ , Sebastian knows. The word choice about people he’s _met_ almost makes him giggle. Maybe Chris doesn’t know how many of them fucked him, or were at least allowed to handle him or fondle him, as part of his training. Maybe Chris does know. Maybe Sebastian doesn’t need to think about that, or anything much, if Chris doesn’t want him to.

“The other people in there with you, when you talked to them,” Chris clarifies, obviously hoping this’ll get through. “We know who they all are. You saved them, baby. You did that. They’re safe because of you.”

Sebastian nods because that part makes sense. He knows why he was there; he’d known he needed to send messages out with couriers. He’d done that. Obeying…earlier orders…doing well…doing what Chris asked.

He’s awfully tired. He rests his head against Chris’s chest.

“Oh god,” Chris whispers again, and then, voice louder, to someone else, “We need help—someone, some fucking medical attention—” Back to Sebastian. “Seb. Baby. Please. Please wake up. Please look at me. At least look at me. Please know who I am, god, Sebastian— _please_ —”

Chris sounds so afraid, Sebastian registers vaguely. Almost as if he’s crying too. That’s not right either. Sebastian’s here and safe and the mission was a success. Chris should be happy.

He tries to look up, at that. The realization does something in the back of his head, somewhere underneath the collar and the cock-cage and and the plug inside him and the haziness, though it doesn’t unlock anything right away.

He attempts to reach up, to reach out. He hasn’t done that for a while, initiating a touch; his hand’s clumsy. “Chris.”

Chris grabs his hand. Cradles him close. Gazes down at him. “Sebastian—?”

“I’m here,” Sebastian tells him. “I’m here. Don’t cry.”

“Do you…you remember me? Us?” Chris gulps in a breath, fractured and frantic. “Seb…”

“I think so. I…” He curls fingers slowly around Chris’s hand. “I love you. You…you own me. No. You say you don’t…you used to say I belong to you, but only because I want to, because I decide that. And you’d smile when you said it, and I’d laugh, because of course I belong to you…”

“All of that,” Chris breathes. “You remember that…”

“I think I do. I’m so tired.” Footsteps approach, running. Sebastian doesn’t stir. Chris—his dominant, still holding the key to his collar—will protect him. Will know what to do. “Please don’t leave me. Sir. I need—I don’t want to be alone.”

Not good protocol. Not behaving as trained. Asking for things. Being needy. But Chris—his Chris, not the undercover persona—wants him to ask, wants to know what he needs. He thinks he remembers that—or does he? Maybe that was someone else. Someone who wanted him to beg.

“I’m not leaving you.” Chris’s voice sounds odd again. Wet. Painful. “I’m not—not ever, never again, Seb, fucking _never_ —I love you, I fucking love you, I’m sorry, I never should’ve said yes to this—to you doing this—should’ve said no, should’ve—I love you. I love you and I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’m right here with you, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Sebastian whispers back, and holds onto Chris while medically trained agents arrive, while soft professional voices start asking questions and Chris’s voice answers, while hands begin to touch him with Chris’s permission, trying to see whether he’s hurt and how badly. Chris doesn’t let go of him, so that’s okay, this is okay, this is what Chris wants to happen to Sebastian and Sebastian’s body right now.

Sebastian’s body, trained as it is, reacts as it’s been taught when touched and fondled: knowing medical inspections mean some attention being paid to his hole and maybe if he’s lucky his cock. Maybe they’ll even make him come, the way the doctors sometimes do. That would be nice, if Chris allows it: a hand or a tool in his hole, moving inside him until he feels that inevitable mindless tipping-over inside and fluid starts dripping out of his soft caged cock and everyone seems amused and pleased with how responsive he is—but, no, wait, that’s not these doctors, this team, this Chris…that’s not right, not the right version of himself…none of that should happen now, should it? Does it happen here too? He thinks not, but he’s still naked and collared and Chris bought him and he can’t recall…

The world lurches. Spins. Fights to return to the recognizable. Chris’s arms stay around him. That feels nice. Chris’s voice, saying things to the doctors, is low and rumbling and tangible. Chris fills up the world and becomes everything.

Sebastian closes his eyes again and breathes in and out. He loves Chris. Chris loves him. He’ll be safe again now with Chris. They’ve saved people and that’s good, he’s done something good, he’s been good, and everything’ll be all right. He believes that.


	3. blood loss/magical healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian's magic's cost him literal blood. But Chris loves him. Chris can be a good anchor. Chris can bring him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a sequel to my fic [every inch of north and south](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/27741564), in which Chris & Sebastian first meet and magician!Seb saves director!Chris from being hexed into a puppy, though this one should make sense even if you've not read that one!

Chris steps in through the side door of Sebastian’s magician’s consultation rooms, where the wards know him as Seb’s boyfriend; he’s tired but cheerful, because it’s been a productive day of meetings about the directorial project he’s taking on for fun, the film about rescue dogs, and also he’s brought coffee for Seb from that new place down the street they’ve been meaning to try.

He’s expecting the familiar tickle of Seb’s magic, and he smiles, the way Seb’s wards generally smile back, all warm and smoky and glittery as opals.

The magic _is_ familiar. It recognizes him. But it’s also wrong. Frantic. Scurrying. Spiking. Singing and shouting, sounds Chris doesn’t quite physically hear but _feels_ —

He’s not a witch the way Sebastian is. But he _is_ magic-sensitive, kind of adjacent to it and aware of it if it’s happening, and he’s Seb’s boyfriend. Sebastian’s magic knows that.

The hairs at the nape of his neck stand up. His skin prickles.

He takes another step. “Seb? Sebastian?”

No answer. But Sebastian’s protective magic’s shrieking now, a cacophony of clashing melodies and scents and textures—burning scarlet and blinding gold and copper on Chris’s tongue and whistles in his ears—and it wraps coils around his wrists and ankles and begs for his help—

He runs. Shoving coffee onto Seb’s table next to the silver scrying bowl. Heart twisting in his chest at the sight of neatly labeled herb-bottles and jars on the shelf, at Seb’s black leather jacket tossed over a chair, as if Sebastian’d expected to be right back—

“Sebastian? You in here?” Something nags at his brain; his eyes catch up after a second.

A space on the wall rack. A missing knife. The silver one, the moon-knife.

Sebastian’s protected against most ordinary blades, but magicians sometimes need to offer drops of blood. Seb’s got a few specific knives for that purpose, which means a few weaknesses. Chris tries to breathe. To think.

Sebastian doesn’t have any specific enemies, not that he knows about; magicians can be envious and prickly and wary, but Sebastian’s generous and happy and clever and kind, and good at warding-spells, also.

But Seb _had_ said—something, that morning—something about being asked to consult on a local case, a missing child, and of course he’d said yes, and Chris had nodded because that was a good thing, of course…but Sebastian hadn’t said it’d be anything difficult…

Or had he? By not saying so, by smiling, by kissing Chris as a distraction?

Sebastian’s a good witch but—in his own words—not anywhere near the sorcerers of legend. Gifted at cures and summonings and counter-curses, not at leveling mountains or flattening enemy armies. And he and Chris have only been a them for three months—maybe Seb hadn’t wanted him to worry…

Chris is worried now. Chris is fucking terrified now. “Seb! If you’re here, if you can hear me—say something, come on—”

Magic pulls at his arm, insistent. Wind howls past his ears, though nothing in the main consultation room physically stirs.

He spins in the direction of the tugging. Of the two doors plus small staircase, one leads to Seb’s distillery and store-room; the other’s the private workroom, for anything that can’t be handled out in the sunny front space. The staircase goes up to Sebastian’s bedroom-slash-library, with the books on astronomy and the low cozy bed with the decadent satin sheets, where they’ve spent a lot of enjoyable time.

The door to the private workroom has a small trickle of red underneath it, seeping out.

Chris stares at it for a second. Then throws himself that way.

The knob, heavy and bronze, doesn’t turn. Chris slams a hand against thick wood. “Sebastian!”

No sound.

“Sebastian, please! Can you—you gotta open the door, Seb—just that, you can do that—let me in, please, Seb, just _try_ —”

No word from Sebastian; but a click echoes through horrified silence. This time the knob turns.

The red’s blood and the blood’s so much, a vicious trail that stretches crimson from the door to a puddle over tidy chalk lines and up to—to—

Chris’s lips say _Sebastian_ , without noise, even as he’s flinging himself across the room. A sizzle scratches down his spine, a hint of burning singes his arm-hair, as he crosses chalk marks; but it’s weak. He doesn’t care.

Sebastian, lying on his back, blinks and tries to focus as Chris bends over him. He’s clearly just collapsed in place, knocking over equipment along the way. The knife lies silver and deadly amid broken ceramic bits of what looks like a coffee-mug; Sebastian can do scrying-work with anything, Chris knows, and is actually best with an object he uses daily, a coffee-cup friend, a connection. The big silver bowl in the consultation room’s mostly for effect.

Sebastian’s bleeding from—from _everywhere_ , all over, red soaking his shirt and jeans, Chris’s jeans where he’s kneeling in the puddle, Sebastian’s hair—red streaks Seb’s face, his nose and mouth, his ears, his bared and _laid-bare_ arms, which Chris almost can’t look at because of the raw—

He clamps hands over the closest wrist. Sebastian’s blood’s hot. Sticky. “Seb—oh god—”

Sebastian coughs. Starts to talk, coughs again, then manages, “Oh, hey…love you…”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Seb—I love you, of course I—what, how, what can I—no, no, oh god, Seb—”

“Not…as bad…as it looks…”

“It looks like you’re fucking dying!”

“Well…not quite…that was his plan…but it’s not all me…the water…”

Chris looks more closely. It’s true: it’s not all Sebastian’s blood. The water from the coffee mug’s thinned it and spread it out and contributed to the pool.

Contributed to. Not all of. He’s keeping hands over Sebastian’s left arm, holding edges together. The right arm’s just as bad; Seb’s still horribly injured, blood pulsing under Chris’s fingers, making them slippery. “What can I do?”

“I’m…trying to…heal it.” Sebastian’s face is white. His eyes stand out against the lack of color: that silvery grey-blue Chris loves so much, now etched with pain. “We found her…the girl…it wasn’t that hard, I’m good at talking to the earth…and to water…I just…wasn’t expecting to fight an amateur warlock for her…I won, obviously…”

“Obviously…”

“He’s not dead, don’t worry…I don’t do that…just in custody…sort of very not conscious, I think. Him, not me.”

“Let me help,” Chris pleads, hands wet, jeans wet, workroom wet with hideous ruby splashes. “Please. Anything.”

“I can’t…” Seb coughs again. Then shuts his eyes. When he opens them his voice is noticeably weaker. “I can’t ask you to…”

“You’re not. I’m offering. I love you, Seb. I said fucking _anything_. Do it. I’m here.”

“It’ll hurt.” Sebastian’s trying hard to sound more all right, and failing. “Chris…”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ ask me if I’m sure.”

“No…I know you are.” A ghost of a smile hovers at the corner of Seb’s mouth: bittersweet, evanescent, affectionate. “Okay. I can stop it…I think…but I could use an anchor…more strength…getting kind of tired, here…but you’re good at awareness, at being present…”

“I am.” He presses harder. Some of the cuts are healing—he can see them—but not enough. “I can do that. What do you need me to do?”

“Look at me,” Sebastian whispers. “Look at me, think about me…about who I am, who you think of…when you think of me…and just relax, be open, let me in…”

Chris draws a wobbly breath. Lets it out. Keeps his hands over the deepest slash. Focuses on Sebastian’s face, Sebastian’s eyes.

Sebastian, he thinks. Bright and beautiful, ridiculous and generous. Made of stories and magic, a smile through a coffee-scented drift of steam, a love of pizza and outer space and other people. Pure joy in running around the woods on a hike, by turns jumping out at Chris from behind trees or just talking to said trees, running a hand over them, starting conversations.

Sebastian’s eyes are cool and sweet, shimmering like mist and starlight. Chris finds himself distantly aware of the rest of the world—his hands trying to hold Seb together, the way his jeans stick to his legs, the hardness of the workroom floor—but it’s all going dimmer now, far away.

More, if Seb needs that. More intimate, more personal. In bed, under him, laughing and fearless. Sebastian sprawled out half atop him, cat-napping, both of them naked and contented in sunshine. The smoothness of Seb’s skin, the dip where his back curves into his ass, the soft little sound he makes when Chris caresses him just right.

Sebastian doesn’t say anything aloud, but Chris feels something like a yes, rose-pink and amber-laced and dancing like eighties rock music because Seb likes Bon Jovi: Sebastian’s magic, worn thin but glinting and prismatic, reaches out. It draws him in.

He’s always thought Sebastian’s magic felt and tasted like light, so many kinds of light: wry cool moonbeams and lazy honeyed sun-thrumming and mischievous star-twinkles and quiet shafts of shyly happy radiance unexpectedly hiding in deep green pools. The burst of airiness from a cloud-like meringue. Whipped cream and edible gold dust. The kiss of sun through water in a lake. The hushed glowing of candles, lit with a thought, pooling liquid along entwined bodies.

Right now the light’s present—Chris can feel it, can taste it—but very ragged, scarlet-tinged. It asks without words, wistful; Sebastian’s giving him one last chance to duck out, he understands. Sebastian isn’t sure that Chris should have to do this, maybe because it’s only been three quick months, maybe because Seb himself wants this so badly—Chris can feel that the same way he can feel how much Seb loves him; no lying here in this place—and Seb is consequently afraid it can’t be true.

Fuck _that_ , he thinks: you saved me once already, you save me every day I get to kiss you, you make my life more full of magic; let me save you; I love you.

And Sebastian laughs: stunned, grateful, overwhelmed. And accepts.

Pain hits first. White-hot and searing. Chris can’t even scream. Can’t think. Can’t process the sensations. If that’s what Seb’s been feeling—how is he even talking, how is he _alive_ , how—

Sebastian does something else, some tug at a thread in the embroidery of shades of light around them. The pain ebbs: not gone, but covered over by clean wintergreen and mint. The sense this time’s vaguely apologetic, though distracted: Seb’s having to juggle a lot of those threads, with no energy to spare.

Chris shakes his head. Tries to project _don’t worry about me, I can take it_ that direction. Sebastian does a sort of mental headshake right back at him, and then—

It’s the _strangest_ feeling. Not bad, not exactly—but dizzying. Stomach-flipping. Vertiginous. The light’s laced itself into his head, his gut, his chest—and it pulls gently and tugs and draws something out of him, taking it in, leaving him lightheaded as it drains.

His heart thumps faster. He’s off-balance, shaken. And it’s something like a release as well, not orgasmic but close, something like Sebastian stroking him or sucking him until the climax rushes up and out involuntarily, nothing he can do to hold it back, as he shudders and cries out at the flood of release, emptying himself into Seb’s mouth or hand or body.

The world still tastes like mint, and a little like pain, hot and copper and iron-sharp, but Seb’s shielding him from the worst of it, he’s aware.

He can feel Sebastian’s magician’s fingertips skillfully taking each strand, each bit of Chris’s energy, and patiently painstakingly reweaving pieces of self: closing wounds, connecting tendons, knitting veins back together. Chris stays very quiet, holding more pieces of Sebastian in his mind as an anchor, and watches him work.

He doesn’t know how long it takes. Time doesn’t matter, not here.

He knows he’s growing more tired, more hollowed out; he can feel that. Giving himself, and gladly—but even as he thinks that, the draining eases, and recedes, and backs away.

Sebastian’s breathing more easily. Sebastian’s arm’s whole, under his hands; Chris blinks, discovers that he _has_ hands, that he can see and feel a world that isn’t diaphanous and timeless and made of light. He’s sticky with drying watery blood, his jeans are ruined, and he’s starving; Sebastian, still lying in the same spot on the floor, opens both eyes. His skin’s less white, and the blood on his face is dried, not new.

Chris holds his hand, his arm; runs fingertips over bright pink tender flesh, new-made skin. Gazes at Seb, amazed, in awe, thankful.

“So,” Sebastian says, visibly exhausted but with sparkling eyes, “candles? And…whipped cream?”

“It’s how you feel.” He touches Seb’s arm again. “Light. You’re not…it’s not finished. All the way.” It’s not: he can see the lines, the tracks. Closed over, safe and not spilling life anymore, but not gone.

“It’s enough for now.” Seb pushes himself up on an elbow, gingerly; he makes a face as his sleeve lands in a puddle. His shirt’s tattered and slashed open as well; so are his jeans. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’m not—”

“If I took much more I would. Trust me.” His eyes meet Chris’s again, less magically hypnotic this time; then flinch, glancing away from the admission of potential harm. “It’s kind of my job. Knowing how far to go. As a professional. And I can do the rest, just more slowly. Are you—”

“I’m fine!” Drained and wobbly, like he’s just run two back-to-back marathons, and his stomach’s growling. But Seb’s alive. “Should you be sitting up? What else can I do?”

Sebastian’s expression goes through several emotions, and then he just says, “Chris,” a sigh, a giving in; and he reaches out, and Chris puts both arms around him right there on the messy workroom floor, holding on.

“I love you,” Seb murmurs after a moment, head resting on Chris’s chest. “I wanted—I might’ve been okay, I was trying hard, I _wanted_ to be—but I wasn’t sure. I was scared. I kept thinking about you, and wanting to see you, and then you were here…”

“I’m here.” He squeezes more tightly. “Brought you coffee. I _had_ been kinda thinking we could order pizza and stay in, y’know, kind of a long day for both of us…”

“And then you walked in and found me.” Sebastian tips his head to look up at Chris more. “Sorry.”

“Hey, you were saving a kid.” He runs a hand over Seb’s hair. They both need a shower. Maybe like three showers. “My hero.”

“And you saved me. It’ll rebuild—the energy I borrowed, I mean—over a day or so, I think. How’re you feeling?”

“Hungry,” Chris says truthfully.

Sebastian stares at him, and then dissolves into giggles: loopy, tired, relieved, and above all real. “Of course…of course, yes, always, after a major working…so am I…oh, Chris. _My_ Chris. Yes.”

“Yours,” Chris agrees, equally truthful and wholehearted. “What can I do, though? For you? You’ll need to rest, right?”

Sebastian scrunches up his nose. “Shower? And…yes. We both should, really.”

“Shower,” Chris concurs firmly, and carefully gets him up off the bloodstained floor.

He holds onto Sebastian in the shower. He holds Sebastian while red slides away down the drain. He tenderly cleans Sebastian’s skin, trying hard to keep touches weightless over recent and sensitive repairs. He kneads shampoo through Sebastian’s hair.

The scent of apples and soap rises around them, light and bracing. Sebastian tips his head back, eyes closed, water sliding down his face. He’s beautiful and tired and trusting, letting Chris keep him on his feet. Chris’s heart flutters.

The world grows easier, steadier, cleansed.

He tucks Sebastian into bed, gently, after. The workroom will handle its own clean-up—Sebastian’s got a spell in place for that, and it’s automatic—but their clothes’re probably a lost cause; Chris attempts a quick rinse and then just leaves the whole disaster in the shower for later. He can deal with it if Sebastian needs to recover.

Seb’s half-asleep and drifting, a long-legged enervated kitten, but stretches out a clumsy hand to find Chris’s. “You should rest too.”

“I will. I’m ordering pizza. Pepperoni okay?” He is, poking his phone, salvaged from a pocket; he plays with Seb’s fingers in his, sitting on the side of the bed. They’re more slender than his own, but long and graceful and talented in so many ways. Magical. “Shower, food, rest. What else?”

Seb yawns. Pink and red streak his arms and his chest, a reminder; Chris can’t not glance at the marks, unable to help it. “Well…if you wouldn’t mind…there’s a jar on the third shelf, downstairs…yarrow and lemon balm…”

“Got it.” He hops up. Throws on sweatpants. Returns with the requested jar and some trail mix and some orange juice, and eases himself into bed beside Sebastian, who smiles tiredly at him.

Chris feeds Sebastian some trail mix, gives him some sips of juice; has some himself. He’s not a witch but he does know about exertion and depletion, and this’ll help. The pizza—from their favorite local place—will be here in twenty minutes, too.

The food does seem to help. Sebastian sits up more, with pillows and Chris’s arm; Chris’s stomach feels better. Low lamplight paints the room in jeweled color, because Sebastian’s bedside lamp is set with tiny lapidary bits of glass. It’s soft and warm and rich, tracing light-patterns over the bed, the blankets, Sebastian’s hair.

Chris dips fingers into spell-infused balm, and begins to stroke it across Seb’s arm. The night takes a breath, scented with healing herbs and protective lemon, and unwinds. Tension ebbs, dwindles, fades: not wholly gone but ameliorated. Sebastian’s ward-spells are quiet and pleased.

He’d thought he’d gotten used to dating a magician. He mostly has: he’s purely delighted when he gets to watch Seb help people, find lost puppies, talk to raindrops. He adores Sebastian’s genius and Seb’s playful sense of humor and Seb’s cheerful way of getting the strings of the universe to play along.

He’d forgotten, or maybe just not thought about, the fact that his boyfriend’s one of the most genuinely powerful white witches currently practicing. Someone the authorities ask when they need assistance. Someone who can fight a warlock at a distance and win.

Seb says he’s not _that_ powerful and laughs about it, but he’s comparing himself to centuries-old stories: no one’s that strong, not these days. Sebastian’s better than he admits to being, though. Good enough that other people come to him for advice. That includes other white witches; Chris knows Sebastian’s done some consultations with colleagues before.

Chris Evans is a director, an actor, a producer of movie-magic stories. Good at empathy, moderately famous these days, and power-sensitive, a little. It’s not nothing, but it’s not the same.

He keeps his touch cautious, not wanting to put any pressure on newly made skin. “How’s this?”

“Good.” Seb yawns again, sleepy. “It’ll help…healing, renewing…’s an old classical recipe, this one…stored power, infused in it, kind of…it shouldn’t even scar, with this.”

“So it won’t cost you anything, like, in terms of power, right now.” He touches Seb’s chest, spreads balm across a thin angry line. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not.” Sebastian gazes up at him: gorgeous as ever, brilliant as ever, powerful as ever, and right now vulnerable and somehow younger, framed by a navy satin pillowcase and the familiarity of them both mostly naked in this bed. “Thank you.”

“Don’t,” Chris says, heart aching with the word, with too many complicated emotions, with love. “You don’t have to say it.”

“But—”

“You’d do it for me.”

“If you ever for some reason had to fight a warlock, I would. You said you had a long day too…?”

“Long, but good.” His hand over Sebastian’s tanned skin, his fingertips bringing healing. Sebastian’s chest lifting and falling, vital and present. “Getting things moving on the heroic rescue dogs movie. Lots of the boring stuff today—logistics, budget, all that—but it’s stuff that has to happen first, so it’s kinda fun, y’know?”

Sebastian just looks at him for a second; the smile warms every atom of those opal oceans, and makes the small joyous lines around them crinkle.

Chris has to laugh, half-embarrassed, paying some closer attention to healing balm and a darker less-knitted red line. “Okay, what?”

“I love you.” Seb reaches up to touch his wrist. “I just…I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Me too? Um. About you.”

“Not just tonight, I mean.”

“Hey,” Chris says, heart in his throat, in his words, in his eyes as he looks at Sebastian, “ _I’m_ glad I was here tonight. I want to be here, Seb, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

Sebastian’s cheeks are pinker now, but he nods. “I’m here too.”

“I know you are.”

“Tell me about your meetings,” Seb requests drowsily, “and all about your movie, again, and the dogs,” and Chris laughs a little, scrubs a hand over his treacherously damp eyes, and does, while gently treating Sebastian’s battle scars in between nibbles of food and traded kisses.


	4. stop, please, get it out (only don't stop)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb’s cock’s already slick, desire bubbling up around the little opening, and the invasion goes easily. More fluid spills and squelches over metal, over flushed skin, over the head and shaft; the sound sinks into him, into the delicate line of his cock, as Chris guides it and steadies him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That's certainly...a thing I've written, now. Yes indeed.

“No,” Sebastian whispers weakly. “No, please…Chris…sir …”

It’s not Seb’s actual safeword, which is _winter_ ; it’s not even a red or a yellow. Chris grins. His Sebastian’s so perfect.

He glances from the tip of the sound to Seb’s cock. Light gleams along metal, an almost audible twinkle. Sebastian, stretched out and beautifully tied up and tied to the bed, trembles. His lips say _please_ again, though his eyes say _yes_ : grey-blue as winter air and sparkling as holidays.

They’ve done a lot of playing, over this long weekend. This vacation. Nice and private, just for them, here in this decadent luxury forest-cabin retreat. Sebastian loves being taken apart and taken out of his head and praised for it, told how good he is when he’s shuddering through yet another dry orgasm as it’s wrung out of him, or rubbing himself against Chris’s boots, or taking a long hard spanking, bent over Chris’s knee. Chris loves giving Sebastian exactly what they both want, loves taking care of Seb, loves cooking for them and cuddling Seb and stroking Seb’s hair afterward.

Sebastian’s always liked sensation, he knows. Sebastian loves feeling it all: awash with it, inundated, overwhelmed and swept away. Sebastian loves belonging to someone so completely, wholly given over to them, whatever they choose for him to feel. Sebastian loves belonging to _Chris_.

And they’ve brought a lot of toys along for this trip. All enthusiastically received, so far.

He runs a hand along the firm solid muscles of Seb’s thigh. “You said you wanted to try this one, sweetheart.”

“I…” Seb’s panting, chest going up and down. The size of the plug in his ass isn’t helping any; his smooth tanned skin’s already sticky with come, his own and Chris’s from earlier, and his hair’s damp from sweat. He’s beautiful and decadent and fabulous, tied up and wanton and on display. “I do…but…Chris…talk to me.”

“I’m here,” Chris says tenderly, “I’m right here,” and touches the sound to his slit, begins the slide inside: shining metal disappearing into Seb’s cock, obscene and glorious.

They’re both watching. Spellbound.

Seb’s cock’s already slick, desire bubbling up around the little opening, and the invasion goes easily. More fluid spills and squelches over metal, over flushed skin, over the head and shaft; the sound sinks into him, into the delicate line of his cock, as Chris guides it and steadies him.

Sebastian’s eyes are huge. Watching the press of a foreign object inside him, where nothing’s ever been; seeing the penetration of this last hole, the claiming of himself, stuffed full and yielded and given over to what’s happening. He seems to’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Chris lets the sound glide all the way in, and leaves it; they both look. Silver glimmers at the head of Seb’s cock, filthy and luscious against heated flesh.

Tears stand out in Seb’s eyes, suddenly. “Chris—oh god, Chris—I—I can’t—”

“Too much?” He can only imagine what Seb’s feeling: inside his cock, yeah, but also the mental part, the emotions…lying here bound to the bed, knowing he’s at Chris’s mercy, knowing Chris is fucking his cock…

“I don’t know…” Sebastian’s really crying now. “I can’t—I can’t—I need—please…”

“What do you need, sweet boy?” Still not a safeword, though Seb’s teetering on the edge of incoherent. A hairsbreadth more, maybe; Chris touches the sound, slides it up a fraction. Then back down. Up, and down.

He really is fucking Seb’s cock now, slim metal stroking in and out. Sebastian wails, high and wordless, and liquid dribbles from his slit, stirred up and spilling over, all over himself. Chris murmurs, “So pretty, Seb, so good, taking this, taking this for me,” and pushes the sound in again.

Sebastian whimpers, head tossing against the bed. His hands jerk futilely against their bonds; his feet kick.

Chris leaves the sound in. Pets his poor oversensitive cock, tenderly. “Maybe we should just keep you like this all the time. Would you like that, sweetheart? Leave you all plugged up, all filled up, all your pretty holes? I know how much you like being full, baby, being used so good.”

Sebastian’s eyes are unfocused, lost in too much sensation: pain and pleasure and wrongness and sweetness, cock tormented and stroked and loved. His mouth hangs open, as if he’s forgotten how to close it.

Chris says, “Wonder if we could go up a size, you know it was a set…wonder how far we could stretch this pretty cock of yours…” and strokes a finger over his cock’s swollen head, around the intruding presence: rubbing at the edges of his dripping slit.

Sebastian wakes back up at this newly sharp slice of ecstasy. Sobbing. Shuddering. “Please…Chris, please…no…no more, get it out, take it out, make it stop…I can’t, I can’t, sir, please make it stop, _please_ …”

Chris hesitates. Seb hasn’t safeworded yet—but sounds so much younger suddenly, small and desperate and broken, voice all soft and shattered, eyes and cock wet and leaking…if Seb really can’t think, can’t remember how to say stop other than begging for it…

He says, quickly but quietly, not panicking because he trusts Sebastian to speak up, concerned but not _too_ much yet, “Yellow, Seb. Just for a sec, I gotta talk to you, okay?”

Sebastian’s crying, but sniffles and then manages to focus on him, which is reassuring. Outside, the wind rustles tree-leaves through the late gold of the afternoon; the day’s fading toward twilight. Chris will make a fire later, and will hold him close under thick knitted blankets, and tenderly care for every sore place. And then they’ll do it all again: bringing Sebastian to profound submissive euphoria over and over, as Chris’s heart leaps and dances and aches with the love of him.

Right now he says, because he has to, “You doin’ okay? You remember you can stop everything, right? You remember your safeword?”

Seb nods again, but without talking.

“Tell me.”

“Winter.” Sebastian’s voice comes out ragged but clear. “I got it. ’M okay. You? You said…”

“Just had to take a breath. Checking in on you.”

“I’m good. Love you.”

“Love you.” He rests a hand on Seb’s hip: comfort for them both, for a heartbeat or two. “You sure?”

“Yeah…”

“You don’t sound like it.”

“It feels so…” Seb shivers, lips parting on a breath, gaze going semi-dreamy again. “I feel…it’s so much…inside and out…”

“Not too much more, maybe?”

“A little.” Seb licks his lips. “Some. Push me. I want it.”

“Okay.” Chris leans in, carefully. A quick kiss. Pure love.

And then he starts playing with the sound again, in and out, fractional movements that he knows’re setting off explosions and fireworks through Seb’s body and mind. And Sebastian begins to sob, and to tremble, and to beg: _no, please, sir, I can’t, please stop_ …

“You can,” Chris tells him, with love, and eyes the second sound in the set, the next largest one. “You want me to try the next one, sweet boy? Get you all nice and stretched out, just ruin this needy little cock, the way it wants me to? Look at you, all wet for me, dripping with it…such a good little slut, aren’t you, Seb? Practically coming all over yourself just from getting your cock fucked.”

Sebastian whimpers again. Mumbles, wordless, only noises. His head lolls; he’s falling further under, malleable and dazed and drunk on subspace and Chris’s control of his body, Chris’s words, everything Chris’s making him feel. His next breath’s a coo, a giggle, tipsy; he’s drooling a little now, mouth slack and wet.

“Such a sweet boy,” Chris tells him, “so good, and you love that, don’t you, baby? Being good for me, taking it all for me…if I pull this out, you’re gonna come, aren’t you? You won’t be able to help it, with your little cock all opened up from getting fucked…you’d just let go and spill it all over, wouldn’t you? So wet, like you are right now, so wet for me…”

Sebastian mumbles another happy indistinct sound, body twitching in his restraints, face empty of everything but pleasure. Chris pauses to appreciate that: he’s done this, he’s brought Seb here, Seb asked to be pushed and this looks like the transcendent rapturous heights of subspace, where Sebastian’s aware of nothing but Chris’s voice and dominance and handling of him. He, Chris, has done this for the man he loves.

“Wonder what’d happen,” he murmurs, and strokes Seb’s balls with one hand, where they’re taut and unrelieved and heavy in his hand. “You’re so good, Sebastian…my sweet boy, asking for this, for me to fuck your hungry cock for you…you’d take the bigger one, wouldn’t you, if I asked…get this little hole so stretched, and you’d just come and come, wouldn’t you…no way to keep it in…would you let it all go for me, baby?”

He takes Seb’s cock back in hand, a loose grip. “Maybe…maybe you’d even piss yourself, wouldn’t you, Seb? Because you couldn’t help it, too stretched, all opened up, and it’s so good, you’re getting fucked so good, and you can’t hold it in…you’d come all over yourself, you’d lose control, you’d just piss yourself right here in my hand because me fucking your pretty cock feels so good and you’re so wet already and you’re all _mine_ , and if I want to fuck you until you come and wet yourself and come again, I will, and you will…”

Sebastian lets out a low mindless noise, not thinking any more, only responding to sensation and Chris's voice; from the reaction, the twitch and spasm and shudder, he seems to like that idea. His hands flex rhythmically in their restraints. His body flutters around the thick plug in his ass; Chris can see it.

“You asked me to take it out,” he says. “Should I, baby? See what happens?” And he toys with the sound again for good measure, while Sebastian moans and twitches and his cock leaks helpless dribbles from his stuffed slit.


	5. panic attacks, exhaustion, forced mutism, whipped, recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sequel - or, rather, the aftermath - to the undercover submissive Sebastian story. Lots of comfort, and gradual healing.
> 
> Warnings for: the aftermath of non-con (Seb willingly went in, on the the assignment, but still) and sexual/psychological conditioning; Chris's guilt and grief; lots of careful recovery.

The first week hadn’t been the worst. Reality hadn’t set in yet. This week, now that it’s routine, now that it’s ongoing, now that Sebastian’s been out of the hospital and home with Chris and the days are passing…

This week hurts. These days hurt.

Chris moves the laundry into the dryer, mechanically. He’s listening hard for any sound, though Sebastian doesn’t make much noise these days. Sheets flop damply, blue-striped, concerned, against his hands.

He’s left Seb curled up on the sofa with a book, a novel about cosmonauts and Mars and terraforming. It’s one Seb had been waiting for, a new release. Sebastian had smiled when Chris put it into his hands; Seb had also said softly, “Thank you, sir,” and Chris’s chest had tried to cave in.

Too many layers to that response. Too many possibilities. Sebastian before this undercover assignment had of course been his already, his submissive, sweet and bratty and funny and shyly happy about praise and dazzlingly competent at Chris’s side as a fellow agent and partner in all senses of the word. Sebastian might’ve thanked him for a gift regardless.

Sebastian has never—never before now—tossed the traditional _sir_ his way all that often. Chris doesn’t require honorifics and Seb’s more likely to just use his name when begging, though every once in a while Sebastian’s in either the sort of mood that turns up provocation to eleven with a sarcastic _oh, yes, Chris, SIR_ , which means he’s asking for a scolding, or the sort of mood that’s extra-soft and small and helpless and fuzzy and floaty, and in that case the term’s genuine, Seb far enough into subspace that he’s all dazed and dreamy and needing his sir to take care of him.

Sebastian says it more now. And it’s neither of those moods.

Trained into him. Automatic. He also struggles to meet Chris’s eyes, gaze dropping to the floor. Eye contact hadn’t been permitted.

Chris shoves the dryer shut. Turns it on. Wishes he’d said something when Sebastian’d said the thank you, wishes he’d asked something—asked Seb not to say it, or found the right words to help Seb know that it’s okay, healing’s okay, working through the ordeal’s not immediate, and Chris loves him.

He knows Sebastian needs time. Time to recover, to put himself back together emotionally and mentally and physically, to remember this life and this shared house, where he’s Chris’s beloved equal, not trapped in the hell of that underground sex-trafficking ring where submissives like Seb were broken and bought and sold and used—

Chris knows some of the ways Sebastian was used. Most of the ways. The bare bones, the medical reports. He needs to know, to try to help; even before that, they’d had an idea of what might happen, back when Seb had agreed to go undercover. Part of why: they’d both wanted to stop it. They’d thought they’d been prepared. They’d thought they’d known, more or less, what to expect.

The physical part’s worse. The mental part’s worse than that.

And Chris _can’t_ know what it was like. He never will, because he wasn’t there. He wasn’t the one who went in and went through the sadistic so-called training, who sent out messages and information, who saved people. Sebastian did that. And Seb isn’t talking about it.

Sebastian isn’t talking at all. Well. Maybe a little. When spoken to. Answering direct questions. Sometimes asking whether Chris would like him to do something about dinner, or bring over another beer, or put on one of Chris’s favorite shows. Things Chris—his dominant—likes.

Chris understands why, and the tears burn behind his eyes every time. Sebastian’s trying to please him. _So_ well trained, now.

He goes down the hall, pausing to peek back into the living room. Seb’s tucked into a ball under a big navy-blue knit blanket, in the corner of the sofa. He’s either reading with his head on his hand or napping. Chris can’t disturb either—Seb doesn’t sleep well these days—and so gets out the warmer cozier flannel sheets with desperate quietness, and takes them to the bedroom to put on the bed.

The world begins to rain, also quietly, no fanfare.

Sebastian’s physical injuries are…on the way to healing. Mostly. The descriptions alone had made Chris’s stomach churn, holding his boyfriend’s hand while Sebastian lay sedated in the hospital. Sebastian’s training had involved a lot of techniques, a lot of drugs, a certain amount of body modification and toys and conditioning. Sebastian’s nipples, always sensitive, are more so, and pierced; Sebastian’s thighs and back bear faint whip-marks and lines. Sebastian’s backside, that pretty pink hole Chris has always loved sinking into…

…that’s part of the _mostly_ healing. Stretched wide, gaping, made easy to use; something in the drugs has also made his prostate hyper-sensitive, so much so that he’ll come almost instantly from even the lightest touch inside. Chris hasn’t tried anything even remotely that direction—wouldn’t, won’t, not now and not until Seb’s ready, if Seb’s ever ready—but Sebastian the first few days had been confused, sobbing, used to being fucked or stuffed full of something large or forced into relentless waves of orgasm; at one point he’d begged Chris to put something inside him, anything, please. He’d be good, he’d promised. He was sorry for not being good enough, for not deserving his owner’s attention. He’d do better. Please.

Chris had nearly thrown up—he’d genuinely thought he might—but had managed to talk Sebastian into accepting one of the pills the doctors’d sent home with them, and then had just held his other half until Seb’s sobs dissolved into sleep. Chris had tucked him into bed and then staggered into the bathroom and collapsed onto cold tile, clinging to the toilet for support.

Sebastian’s doing better, now, ten days after that collapse of realities. Less confused, less high on aphrodisiacs and whatever else had ensured hazy submissive compliance—though the physical sensitivity’s likely permanent—and more aware that this is him and Chris, that he’s home and safe, that he’s recovering from an ordeal. Sebastian, Chris suspects, is trying hard to figure out which reactions fit which experiences: the weeks he’d spent losing himself, versus his life with Chris.

He gets the fitted sheet on their bed, nice and neat. The flannel will be warm, if Sebastian’s cold. The pattern will make Seb smile, he hopes: scattered blue stars dancing over creamy off-white.

The rain murmurs to itself, noncommittal, watching through glass.

Sebastian needs soft sheets and warmth and hopeful stars. Maybe the stars can fight back the nightmares.

Sebastian doesn’t wake up screaming. Sebastian, in fact, barely makes any sound when waking from those dreams.

He only lies very still, eyes open, breathing ragged, whole body trembling. He jerks away from touch, then, and then tries to apologize, reaching for Chris’s hand to put it back, trying to give his dominant something Chris has asked for even if Seb himself doesn’t want it.

They’re both exhausted. Chris isn’t sleeping either. Standing guard.

Sebastian’s more afraid now, he knows. Scared that his dominant’s no longer happy with him, that he’s too badly hurt, that this is too much to ask. Conditioned to the point of having a real panic attack, hyperventilating, huddled into a corner, if Seb thinks Chris is angry with him. That’s happened twice now, Seb completely sure he’s done something wrong, made Chris upset, when the truth is that Chris is angry because this _happened_ and he can’t fix it and the guilt gnaws away at his stomach like the jaws of a bear trap.

He tries to be there. Tries everything that he can think of, everything that might help. Familiar knit blankets, ones Seb’s always liked because Sebastian gets chilly easily. Books, both old favorites and new, like today’s. Home-cooked meals, all of Seb’s favorites. Touches and caresses, or no touching at all; he’s not sure which is better. Sebastian won’t or can’t say: he’ll say yes to whatever Chris asks.

Chris finishes the pillowcases, and arranges the comforter and blankets, also space-themed: the top blanket has an artistic shooting star flying across it in black and white.

He nods at it. The bed, being a bed, can’t nod; but it crosses mental fingers along with him.

He follows the sigh of rain back out to their living room, where tall bookshelves and plush homey furniture admonish him to be soundless: Seb’s asleep.

Chris props a shoulder against the frame of the hallway. Gazes at Sebastian. Dark hair and closed eyes and a thin cheek pillowed on one hand: they all burrow straight into Chris’s heart.

He never should’ve let Sebastian take this assignment. He should’ve found a way to say no. They’re equals as well as partners, the same rank and _almost_ the same amount of experience, and Seb had been a natural choice for going undercover, already submissive and competent and confident in Chris’s love and care. They’d both thought at the time that it would be not easy but worth doing.

That _almost_ kicks him in the ribs. Bursts open all his past self’s idiotic assumptions.

He does have a _little_ more experience than Sebastian, not much but a couple more years in the field. He loves Seb, and on top of that he’s Seb’s dom; he should’ve—

What? Told Seb no? Made it an order?

Sebastian’s the man he loves, and a fully qualified agent with undercover experience, and capable of deciding all by himself whether or not to accept a mission. Sebastian had said yes, because it’d save people; Chris had sworn to come for him, to get him out.

He had. Four days later than planned. A rendezvous rescheduled. Somebody suspicious somewhere. But he _had_ come for Sebastian, he _did_ , Seb’s _here_ —

Sebastian’s trying hard to be here. To be himself again.

Seb smiles at him and watches outer space documentaries with him and helps make dinner. Seb remembers books, movies, workout routines; they’re absolutely not going to the gym yet, but they’ve managed a walk or two, not far and moving slowly, out in the woods where everything’s private and hushed and theirs alone. They sleep in the same bed, though Chris is petrified of making any demands, even just unwanted or accidental touch.

Sebastian knows he’s Special Agent Sebastian Stan. He knows he’s been undercover, he’s succeeded in saving people, and he’s got a life and friends and a home he shares with Chris, who loves him.

Seb _does_ know all that. It helps, he’d said once, one of the times he’d felt like talking. It’d helped when he’d been there. When men who were experts in breaking submissives had tried with him. He’d had Chris and the mission to lean on.

Leaning on the wall himself, in the present, Chris tries to inhale. His vision blurs; Sebastian’s napping shape wavers.

He scrubs a hand over his face. Sebastian needs him. Sebastian needs him now. He can’t come apart.

They’ve got three months of leave, and they’ve been promised more if they ask. And that’s both of them: everyone knows Chris isn’t taking on any assignments without Sebastian. At least they’ve got that support. The agency’s on their side.

He takes a step into the room. Coincidentally, thunder booms.

Sebastian bolts up, clutches his blanket, doesn’t make a sound. Eyes huge, not quite focused, not seeing the here and now. Book plummeting to the rug.

“Seb?” Chris doesn’t move another inch. Keeps his voice low. Unthreatening. Soothing. “Sebastian? It’s okay, it’s just a storm, and me, it’s just me, I swear. You can hear me, you can see me, right?”

Seb stares at him for a second. Then nods, slowly. But he looks down as he does it.

“Can I come over there?”

Sebastian nods again. Chris swallows a bitter marble of hardened anguish and picks his way across floorboards and rugs, sitting down gingerly next to Seb’s crumpled blanket-puddle. “You need anything? Coffee, some food, some ibuprofen? Headache?” He hesitates over the next question; waves a hand down the hall. “Restroom?”

Sebastian’s mostly doing better with that too, but Chris’s emotions can’t handle thinking about it too much. That one’s both mental _and_ physical, and awful. Sebastian’s cock had been kept caged and full, sleek toys inserted there too, and then sometimes stretched open and played with almost beyond bearing, while he lost all control over his body and its functions. If he’d needed to relieve himself when _not_ being fucked, he’d had to beg for permission and removal of cruelly controlling devices.

The first few days of that’d been the worst too, after bringing Seb home; Chris hadn’t understood just how bad until they’d both been in the kitchen, himself making tea, on the second day. Sebastian had begun crying, near-soundless, abruptly aware that he’d been unable to wait for permission or to hold anything in any longer, and Chris had turned and realized.

He’d started asking if Seb needs to use the restroom, after that. He’s tried to be clear that Seb doesn’t _need_ his permission, and Seb’s been working on that part. Remembering. Trying so hard to be his old self.

Chris can tell it’s a process—every so often Sebastian glances at him, hesitates, and clearly reminds himself that it’s fine if he gets up—but it _is_ working, about ninety-nine percent of the time over the last couple weeks. Chris has gradually stopped asking as often, though he’s figured out that it actually helps when Seb’s sleep-deprived or confused by nightmares or having a bad day.

They’re both seeing therapists. Agency-recommended. Seb’s seeing two, different specializations, plus a nutritionist and some physical rehab, retraining, helping him reclaim his body and how it moves.

They haven’t been in too many times yet. Lots more to go.

Seb shakes his head, now. Chris isn’t sure whether that means no to one of his questions, or all of them. “Um. Seb? You, um, not talking, right now?”

Sebastian hesitates. Then gives him a sort of helpless shrug and head-tip, not a nod or a shake: Seb doesn’t know either.

“Okay,” Chris says, “that’s fine, you don’t have to,” and stretches to pick up Seb’s dropped book. “Want me to read to you?”

Sebastian thinks this over, then nods. He’s wearing one of Chris’s shirts, a well-worn maroon fold of comfort over his own pajama pants. He looks like himself, as if this were any other rainy afternoon, any other day he’s borrowed Chris’s clothes.

“Okay,” Chris says again, holding up the novel. “Show me where you were?”

Seb takes it. Flips to a page. Taps a paragraph. Hands it back.

Chris settles in. Courage and space exploration and scientific know-how. Solving problems, building a future way out there on Mars. A crew working together. It’s a good story, and he likes it; Sebastian’s listening, smiling.

The day might be normal. The world might be normal. Like before. Or—not.

Sebastian’s watching him read. Chris straightens his shoulders. Performs a little more: more energy, more character voices, more drama when some environmental systems fail. Getting into it.

Sebastian leans in. Chris carefully doesn’t draw attention to that fact, just keeps going.

The storm rumbles, purring. Rain lashes the windows. Seb twitches but continues gazing at Chris, and even scoots closer, moving next to him.

Chris tries not to hope. Tries not to imagine. Tries not to expect anything at all.

He reads a line of encouragement, dialogue, one shipmate to another.

Sebastian reaches over. Catches his hand.

Chris stops. The world holds its breath, poised on a slender crystal thread.

Sebastian says, voice barely audible, “We weren’t allowed to. Talk. To talk back to our…owners. I can’t…I’m trying, Chris. I’m trying. I want to.”

Tears hit Chris’s eyes. They sear and scorch and leave pain.

Seb puts up a hand, hesitant but curious. One fingertip brushes Chris’s cheek, collects water, a shine. “You’re not okay either.”

“I’m…it’s not…it’s not about me! Seb—”

“I know I’m…hurt.” A smile tugs at the corner of Sebastian’s mouth, wry but real: the word’s nowhere near big enough. “But so are you.”

“Not as much,” Chris whispers, Chris confesses. A failure. His. “Not like you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sebastian whispers right back. “We both said yes.”

“I should’ve—if I had—I was late getting you out, I wasn’t there—I didn’t—”

“You did save me.” Seb squeezes his hand. “You _did_.”

“You’re hurt and I let it happen,” Chris mourns, hopeless.

“You did everything you could.” Sebastian sighs, abruptly more himself than he’s sounded in a while. His eyes are full of love and weary brittle humor: holding Chris’s. “I was already…not in great shape. Four more days…it didn’t matter. Not by then.”

“I said I’d be there.”

“I didn’t know what day it was, at that point. And you couldn’t push, if they changed the rendezvous. You’d’ve put the whole plan in danger. You know it and I know it.”

“Still.” Chris gulps down heartbreak. “I should’ve been there.”

Sebastian gets quiet again. Chris bites his lip. Hard.

Sebastian says, as if turning over the idea, considering it, making space for it, “You like me talking.”

“ _Yes_.”

“I like being here for you.” Seb gets even closer. Pressed right up against Chris on the couch. “I know who I am. I do, Chris, I swear. I’ve got…a lot…in my head right now, and some of it’s not going away any time soon, but I remember that I’m me. And I know who you are, and I know I love you.”

“I love you.” It’s all he’s got left.

“I know.” Seb licks his lips, a flash of pink. “I know. You…you changed the sheets, right? Laundry, you said, earlier.”

“Yeah…?”

“I have…an idea. I think.” Sebastian licks his lips again. It’s a tell, one he only does around people he knows well, a subconscious admission of trust; Chris had noticed that years ago, when they’d first become partners. Seb adds, uncertain, “Is that all right, sir?”

They both flinch; but Chris makes himself recover. “Of course. Tell me all your ideas, Seb. All of them.”

“Yes…Chris.” Sebastian finds another flicker of humor, tapdancing over ravines. “Come with me?”

Chris nods, silenced by courage. Sebastian takes his hand. Pulls him to the bedroom.

And smiles at the sight of stars. “I love that blanket. And those sheets.”

“I know you do.” His throat’s tight. “Seb…you’re not…you’re healing…we shouldn’t…”

“If you mean sex, sir, no.” Sebastian winces, shakes his head at himself, lets it go. His feet are bare, toes nestled into the deep thick blue of their rug. “No. I can’t. Maybe sometime, I want to, but not yet. Not now.”

“You…”

“I _want_ to want you.” Seb takes both of Chris’s hands into his. His fingers aren’t cold, and are not entirely steady but firm. “I want to get on my knees for you. I want to remember that I’m yours, not—not theirs, not anyone else’s. I want that piece of me back. So yes, someday. Not soon.” He stops, makes a face, clears his throat: “This is more talking than I’ve done in a while…”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s just. Odd.” Seb detaches one hand, touches his throat this time. “I feel naked. All the time.”

Their collars, the three they’ve bought over the months and years, sit happily on a shelf in the wardrobe that’s for play. Chris hasn’t even contemplated them. He’d found Seb wearing someone else’s collar, locked into vicious stern unyielding gold; he can’t imagine Seb ever wanting that again.

“I do, though,” Sebastian says, and Chris’s expression must be thoroughly stunned, because Seb laughs, quick and lucent. “You looked over there. Not hard to guess. I want that too—I want to belong to you, and feel it—but not yet to that, also. Just…come lie down with me? In bed.”

“I like lying down with you in bed.” Chris takes a step that way. They do sleep beside each other, clothed; he hasn’t been holding Seb tightly because that might feel smothering, though sometimes he does offer an arm or a hand-hold if Sebastian indicates that that’s welcome.

He can do that right now. He can hold Seb right now.

He takes another step, and then stops. Because Sebastian—

Sebastian’s peeling off his shirt, which is Chris’s borrowed shirt. Baring smooth skin. Pajama pants low on his hips.

Chris can’t think. Brain blank. Heart pounding.

“ _Not_ for sex,” Seb reinforces, and he’s somehow even amused, gallows-humor and affection and weariness and hope all together in his voice. His eyes are pale, blue-grey silver mirroring the rain. “I just thought…if I feel naked anyway…and I need you, Chris. I miss feeling you. My anchor. And if you…if you can feel me…maybe it’ll work for you too. Helping with it all. I’m still here. We’re still here. Can we try? Please?”

“You…want…us naked…”

“I think I do.” Sebastian’s tone quivers, just a hair; his eyes aren’t calm but are sure about asking. Wind flings a new shower of drops over the windowpane, swirling water into abstract art. “May I see you naked, Chris?”

This time he’s actually almost teasing, not his former bratty submissive self but poignantly aware of how and why he’s making the request. Chris gazes at him, and loves him, and is in awe of him: the strongest most courageous person in the world, in any world, here or Mars, ever.

Sebastian takes a deep breath and pushes down his pajama pants. He’s naked everywhere now. Double vision swims in Chris’s sight, layers overlapping: the last time Seb got naked in this room, kneeling joyously for him, versus now.

Sebastian almost looks the same—thinner and less tanned, but the same long legs, lean waist, dark nipples—but not quite. His nipples’re pierced for decoration; his thighs have one or two almost-invisible scars—matching a few on his back—and his cock hangs soft and limp and small between his legs.

But he’s still himself. He’s the man Chris loves.

Chris starts to talk. Attempts to say Seb’s name. Discovers he’s crying.

Sebastian comes over. Touches the hem of Chris’s shirt. Looks up, a question; Chris nods, blinking fast.

Sebastian tenderly lifts Chris’s shirt, eases it up and over, leaves Chris exposed and breathless. He sets fingers on Chris’s sweatpants; his mouth quirks suddenly. Chris knows what he’s thinking: the last time Seb did this, devout and traditional, removing his dominant’s clothing with hands full of service and love.

He puts out a hand without thinking, instinctive. He touches Seb’s wrist: a familiar gesture, grounding, right where a cuff or Chris’s own hand would rest. “I want this too. If you do. _Only_ if you do.”

“I do.” Seb’s smile’s real and bright, if battered. “Yes.”

Chris’s sweatpants slide down. He’s naked with Sebastian now, for the first time since the mission. He’s not at all hard—it’s not that kind of moment—but his cock swings long and heavy: he’s always been large. He has a split second of panic—what if Seb doesn’t want those memories?—but Sebastian doesn’t say anything, just tugs him to the bed.

They sink into star-spangled flannel, naked together. The sheets feel good against Chris’s skin. Sebastian feels even better: tangible, solid, bruised but recognizable. Chris’s fingers, Chris’s hands, Chris’s body, all know the shape of him.

He cradles Seb close. Breathes in the scent of Seb’s shampoo, clean as oceans. Runs a hand along Seb’s back.

Seb’s warm and slightly tense against him, but the tension’s ebbing bit by bit. Chris rubs his back again, no pressure, only a touch. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Seb murmurs, face tucked into Chris’s collarbone. “Good.”

“Good.” His fingers catch fleetingly over a raised line, a scar. He moves them hastily.

Sebastian says, not stirring away from the touch, “They whipped me. Not just me. Part of seeing how we responded.”

“I know.” The doctors’d said. In the reports.

“They weren’t supposed to leave scars. Damaged property. But they’d get angry with some of us, or want to push us. They didn’t like something about me. Fair enough, really…”

“You’re safe,” Chris says, fierce with anger, sharp with love, and edged with a hint of dominant growl he can’t stop: Sebastian’s _his_ sub, and someone else did this. “You’re safe. You’re here with me.”

“They…” Seb’s breath’s shaky but he keeps talking. “They made me come. From it. Well, at the same time. So I couldn’t tell the difference. That was the point, with most of it. Making us forget anything else ever existed. Giving in.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m still yours,” Sebastian whispers back. “And it’s not your fault. And I still like this. Being here with you, like this. I feel good.”

“Do you?” He slides his hand up, cautiously. Touches the nape of Seb’s neck. Naked, Seb had said. No collar, no reminder of belonging. “How’s…this?”

“Good,” Seb answers instantly. “Yes, please, that, sir—Chris—please.” His body relaxes more, as if Chris’s hand on his neck feels right. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Chris says, “good, I like this too,” because he does, oh god he does, his hand cradling Seb, his body drinking in Seb’s presence, the way Seb softens against him like a weight’s been lifted. “Tell me if you stop feeling good, though.”

“I…” Sebastian huffs a laugh over Chris’s chest. “I will. I know you want me to. And I do want to. It’s fucking awful, I know. Complicated.”

“It is.” He kneads the nape of Seb’s neck, testing; that one gets a pleased small sound. “It’s okay. I’m good with complicated.”

“Good, ’cause it’s going to be, for a while.” The rain gathers itself, drips from eaves, finds shared pools to land in. Sebastian’s words are warm against Chris’s skin. “I’m not…I’m not okay, you know. I want to be. I will be. But I’m not there yet.”

“I know.” He kisses the top of Seb’s head, tasting dark waves. “Me either. But I’ve got you, Seb. I promise.”

“And I’ve got you.” Seb does: an arm around him in turn. “This part’s nice. Just being here. Knowing you are too.”

“Always. You’ve got good ideas, y’know.”

“Sometimes.” Chris feels Sebastian’s smile in the answer, though he can’t see it. “Could you…mostly what you’ve been doing…read to me sometimes? Talk to me? Touch me like this? Like I’m still real, and yours, and you want me…”

“I do. And yes. _Fuck_ yes. All of it. Anything you want, I want that too.”

“Talk to me right now?” Sebastian sounds almost drowsy, hopeful and asking, not at all near subspace but wanting care. His legs, his hip, his flaccid cock, are all touching Chris; he doesn’t seem bothered by that small miracle, only comfortable. “Think I’m about running out of words, here…kinda catching up with my head, all this asking my dom for things…”

Seb’s half kidding and half not; Chris can hear it. He kneads Seb’s neck some more. “Sure. You want me to tell you how good you feel? How awesome you are? You totally are. Pretty much a superhero, saving people. And still mine. My Sebastian. _So_ good. Or, hey, I could talk about food. You feel like breakfast for dinner, tonight? I know how much you like those egg sandwich things I make, with the avocado, red pepper, all of that?” He rubs toes against Seb’s ankle for good measure. “You think they could ever grow avocados on Mars? I’d totally try it. You know you would too. Martian guacamole. Martian avocado toast. Martian egg sandwiches. We’d need Martian chickens.”

Sebastian’s laughing now, weightless and hushed, held closely in his arms. Chris’s body sings; his heart wants to dance. He settles for saying, “I could learn to raise Martian chickens. Live on a space farm with you. Get a Martian dog, maybe.”

Seb nods. “I like dogs.”

“So we’re definitely adopting at least one hypothetical space dog, then.” The rain patters, leaping and light. Seb’s legs slide into his, getting more closely entwined. The bedroom’s theirs, ordinary and wonderful, snug and safe and full of optimistic naked skin and flannel stars.


	6. fire/oxygen mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several people stumble out of the smoke, with the aid of more of the fire brigade. Chris recognizes them: crew, extras, a personal assistant. No Sebastian.
> 
> No Sebastian—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenario vaguely borrowed and adapted from history - the Apollo 1 fire, to be precise, though this isn't quite the same set of events!

Fire. Chris smells it, hears it—ash and alarm, cinders and shouts—before he sees it. He’s been over in hair and makeup, and he and the makeup artists exchange looks and duck out the door, trying to see what’s going on. Someone yells something about the set. The soundstage. Going up. Sirens shriek in the distance.

The set—but—

Sebastian’s on set.

Sebastian’s on that set, because he’d already been called over for a few shots before Chris’s character’s meant to show up and fret over him with space-program director worry. Sebastian’s on that set, dressed in that astronaut’s uniform, practicing getting in and out of his tiny historical-replica capsule—

Chris can’t put the pieces together. He can’t.

He runs, instead. Everyone is. Across the lot. Toward the flames.

The fire’s sharp and vicious, orange and red and hungry, full of fangs. The heat hits like a fist, leaping from the soundstage. It’s all going up.

Firefighters’re at work. Water flies past him; chemical retardants soothe flaring rage. The fire fights back.

Several people stumble out of the smoke, with the aid of more of the fire brigade. Chris recognizes them: crew, extras, a personal assistant. No Sebastian.

No Sebastian—

No. No. He lunges closer. “Seb!”

“Chris—” That’s Anthony Mackie, also on this film, which they’d laughed about—the three of them together again—and half in costume and half not, the tuxedo shirt for the astronaut fancy-dress ball hanging open over jeans. “Chris, no—you can’t do anything now, you can’t go in—”

_“Sebastian’s in there!”_

Mackie’s face wears horror like an open grave: comprehending the loss, broken open, full of anguish. “I know—Chris, I _know_ —but you can’t, they said, it’s—”

An explosion. A billow of flame. Shooting out a door.

“No,” Chris says. He pulls against the grip on his arm. “ _No_.”

“I’m sorry—” Mackie has both arms around him now, as Chris staggers. They wrestle or collapse or crumple to the ground. “It’s too late, Chris, it’s—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you know I…oh, Jesus…Seb…”

They cling to each other, huddled on hard ground. Chris’s knees hurt from the impact. When he breathes he tastes smoke, cinders, flying bits of paper.

It’s not real. It can’t be real. It’s too fast, too strange, too horrible to be true.

Sebastian isn’t—Seb’s not—

Sebastian, who just that morning had been kissing him, laughing, running lines with him in the shower and singing Green Day slightly off-key and trailing hands all over Chris’s body with a smirk that said he was thinking about what they’d just done…

Sebastian can’t be gone. Chris loves him.

“But,” he whispers. “No…he’s not…he can’t be…”

The fire’s hissing, spitting, cornered. Backing down.

Murmurs happen in the background. Paramedics, emergency crews. People doing head counts.

“We were going to,” Chris says, very small, hiding from the imminent understanding, not wanting to understand. “We were going to…after this film…we would’ve told everyone…our characters’re in love anyway…Seb said we should do it at the premiere…we’re going to tell everyone. About us. I love him.”

“Chris,” Mackie says. “Chris, look at me.”

“I’m going to kiss him,” Chris says. “In public. I’m…I was…he wanted…I wanted to hold his hand and tell everyone I’m in love with him…”

“I know. He told me. You told me. I know you were.”

“But…he’s…” He can’t think. Can’t move. The weight crushes him down onto the ground. “He’s…”

Something’s happening. Paramedics coming over. Hands coaxing Chris up, voices asking questions.

He answers mechanically. Dully. He’s not hurt. He’s not injured, physically. He mumbles, “Sebastian…”

“It’s all right.” The closest paramedic pats his shoulder. “It’s all right, I promise—here, come with us, this way…”

Nothing’s all right. Nothing ever will be again.

Because it doesn’t matter, he goes along with her. Stumbling around the side of the building, the ruin, the rubble. Haze hangs heavy in the air. The shape of an ambulance looms, squat and white. Chris’s eyes burn. He isn’t crying—or is he? Smoke and shock mingle and slide down his cheeks.

Would it have been quick? Would Seb have had that mercy, at least? He can’t let himself imagine the alternative: Seb trapped in that small one-man capsule, unable to escape, knowing…

He has to stop. Bending over. Hands braced on knees. He’s dizzy. Wanting to fall.

“Chris!” That’s…a voice he knows. That’s…

It can’t be. It _can’t_.

“Chris!” says Sebastian’s voice again, followed by a cough—no, a series of coughs, deep and shuddering, and then what sounds like medical admonishment over protests. Someone else says, “Yes, he’s fine—keep that on, please, we’ll get him for you—”

Sebastian’s voice, or the voice that sounds like Seb’s, murmurs something indistinct and subsides.

Chris lurches upright. Rubs his eyes. He can’t see. Can’t recall how to breathe, how to take a step—

The friendly paramedic takes his arm. Coaxes him around the side of the ambulance, to the back, among a few coughing and wounded bodies, everyone alive if smoke-damaged; she guides him over to where—

Where he sees—

“Sebastian…” His knees wobble. His voice cracks. “Seb…”

Sebastian’s lying propped up on a stretcher. Oxygen mask in place. Air flowing. Ash in his hair, an ugly burn across one arm, black streaks like claws slashing his astronaut’s wardrobe.

But his eyes are open. His chest’s going up and down. He brightens all over, whole body transformed with relief and joy, at the sight of Chris; he struggles to push himself up, to move.

Chris throws himself that way. Hands shaking. Heart shaking. Reaching for Seb. “Sebastian—oh god— _Seb_ —”

Sebastian flings both arms around him, heedless of burns and smoke. Chris holds him, feels him, clutches him desperately. Seb’s here. Seb’s here and real.

He knows nothing else, for a handful of seconds.

He finally pulls back because he needs to look, needs to see. He gazes at Sebastian, drinks him in, sinks into the certainty of him. Sebastian. His Sebastian. Alive.

Seb leans into Chris’s arm. He’s weak, frighteningly so, but moves the mask again. “Hey…love you…”

“Don’t,” Chris whispers, “don’t, you need that, keep it on, they said,” and tries to nudge it back with fumbling fingers. “I love you…oh, fuck, Seb…I love you so damn much…”

Seb resists putting the mask on, long enough to promise, “I’m here. I’m here and I’m safe, okay?” He stops to cough; he closes his eyes after, briefly.

Chris looks up at their paramedic. She tells him, “He’ll be all right. We’ll keep an eye on his lungs, but his breathing’s already improving, and everything sounds the way it should, the way we’d expect. He’s a hero, you know.”

Sebastian, now settled against Chris, waves one hand: tiredly dismissing this.

“Oh, yes,” the paramedic says, to Chris. “He got three people out that side door, before anyone ever made it in. They’re all talking about it.”

“Of course he did.” Chris gazes down at Sebastian, in his arms. “Of course you did. I fucking love you.”

Seb looks up, Tries to grin, or shrug: brushing off heroism, all in a day’s work, happy to be here and held by Chris.

Their paramedic says, casually, “He wouldn’t rest until we found you.” She’s bandaging Seb’s burned arm now, talking. “Didn’t realize you two were a thing.”

And Chris feels that impact, that whiplash, like a second smaller gut-punch.

He can’t be upset about anything, no room for that emotion, not when Seb’s alive. Nothing but love, gratitude, bone-deep reprieve so acute he wants to start sobbing into Seb’s hair—

And he’s just babbled words about how much he loves Sebastian. Aloud. All over the place. And Seb said it too, because Chris did, because Chris needed reassurance. When they haven’t made that announcement yet.

He’s hot and cold, suddenly. Sebastian had wanted—though it’d been mostly for fun, for the timing of the announcement—to wait. To not say anything yet.

But— _Sebastian’s alive_.

And Seb must feel the sudden tension, the war of realizations happening in Chris’s muscles, because he shifts, glances up at Chris’s face, raises eyebrows. Gingerly lifts his oxygen mask again. “Chris.”

“Stop doing that—”

“Just. One thing.” A pause, a cough; but he’s sounding better. “I love you. What was it…you said? I _fucking_ love you.”

Chris tries to say Sebastian’s name. Emotion snarled in his throat. Clogging words.

“Could’ve lost you. Or me. Just now.” Seb breathes, in and out. “I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to not say it. I love you, Chris Evans. For…fucking always.”

“Yes,” Chris says, Chris is saying, words tumbling and falling all over themselves and pouring out, “yes, yes, god, fuck, yes, I love you, I love you so much, Sebastian—I want that too, I want this, I want everyone to fucking know how much I love you—always, always, _yes_.”

Sebastian’s eyes are sparkling by the time he finishes, even above the oxygen mask. Their paramedic says happily, “Congratulations,” while beaming at them both, checking Seb’s vitals, making sure he’s doing fine.

Other people are coming over, led by Mackie; a wave of concern rushes their way. There’ll be some cameras, too, Chris knows.

He doesn’t care. He’s holding Sebastian, holding onto Sebastian: the love of his life, because they are both alive, alive and here and rock-solid together. The soundstage is smoking and groaning, and there’ll be rebuilding and filming delays and rescheduling to contend with, plus the news story their love life’s about to become, and that’s all okay, because it’s all real and true.

Sebastian’s breathing. So Chris is too. And he knows they’re _both_ going to be just fine.


End file.
